I dedicate myself to public speaking
Peaking subtly along with the days and nights and weeks and whatever comes next
Sometimes I talk too much
It’s not enough to always think after I
Open my mind up,
I have to embrace the world between the tips of my fingers
And fill my lungs up with air in order to
Listen more
Be more
Feel more
Until I have something to say that is ¬worthy of being heard
It’s not a matter of spoken word
It’s about voicing experiences
Breathing new existence into the dead past
And painting my life across an audience with my tongue as the brush
My words are the color
And everything inside of me that bubbles over when I speak with or without thought
Is my subject
I’m not claiming to be anything less than
Rough edges
Anything more than imperfect
But it’s in my imperfections that I celebrate the perfection of another individual whose name is mine, whose body is mine, who breathes when I breathe and cries when I cry
And I don’t claim to be Walt Whitman,
But Walter, I too, contain multitudes,
And I too, contradict myself,
And I too, when I give, I give myself,
Every word I speak,
Every second of every story I tell
Is a part of me,
Blown into the air like the seeds of a dandelion,
And perhaps there is hope that
When they fall,
They will sprout roots.